


The Hospital at the Edge of Creation

by Musings_of_a_Monster



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Suicide, minor editing may occur, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-06-30 05:39:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15745386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musings_of_a_Monster/pseuds/Musings_of_a_Monster
Summary: When a journey of healing is never taken in life, or is cut short by death, there is a place a soul may go for the help it never got.After the Seine, Javert is led to such a place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to continue _Receipt of Resignation_ , for which you may blame autumngracy (the first chapter _is_ that, so if you've already read it you can skip on to chapter two). I make no promises regarding an update schedule because work is erratic and I am a flake at the best of times.
> 
> Some chapters will need more warnings than others. For chapter specific warnings, please see the notes at the beginning of each chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canonical suicide.

Javert found himself on the parapet above the Seine. This was confusing not because he didn’t recall being there—he most certainly did—but because he had also thought that he _also_ remembered having already jumped. There lay his hat, which he had set aside before. He did not pick it up and prepared, again, to jump.

“Hello? Hello?” a voice cut across the night air with a ringing clarity that seemed indefinably atypical. Javert turned and saw an elderly man in painfully white robes marking him as a man of the cloth. He was carrying a cane, but not leaning on it as much as probing his surroundings with it.

Though he could not have said why, the man who would invoke to most minds the image of a wolf or a mastiff or a tiger suddenly emulated the rabbit and froze. Javert did not want an audience. Much less a man of God. Javert was not ignorant regarding the church's stance on self-destruction. This form of resignation, however necessary and just, would shock and appall. He would wait until he was alone.

“Hello?” the curé (though Javert was somehow unsure that was the right title...and had a niggling notion another would be more appropriate) called again, “Is there anyone there? Is there no one to help a poor, blind fool?”

_Blind_? Javert descended onto the dry bridge. The Seine wasn’t going anywhere, and an elderly blind man—even a holy one—was not safe to wander the streets of Paris at night. “Monsieur le curé,” Javert said, “do not be alarmed, I am an officer.” He _was_ , until his letter was read. “How may I assist you?”

The curé shifted his head in the direction of the voice. He stood and waited for Javert to respectfully take an arm. “Oh, bless you, monsieur!” (Javert repressed a wince.) “Would you be so kind as to escort me to the police station? I am a bit lost. I am not from around here, you see.”

“Of course. But where is your guide, monsieur? How is it that you were left here alone?” Someone had surely shirked their responsibilities toward this venerable man, and that greatly disagreed with the inspector.

“We were separated,” the cure said with a smile, “but if you would take me to the station, I will find her again shortly.”

They must have agreed to meet at the police station if they lost each other. A sensible plan. Javert nodded (though he realized the curé could not see the gesture) and began to lead the old man along.

“I am glad to have met you,” said the curé, “but is it not rather late? Or am I disrupting you from your patrol?”

“You are not,” Javert said, “And, monsieur, if I were on patrol, I would be within my duties to assist you. You disrupt nothing.”

The curé nodded, still smiling, “I am most fortunate to have been found by so considerate and responsible an officer! You must take great pride in your job.”

“I used to.” The statement that came out of Javert’s own mouth shocked him so much that he nearly missed a step. He hadn’t meant to say that, he was certain.

“Oh? What changed that, monsieur?”

Javert was silent. Which was rude, but he didn’t know what to say in response. His face began to heat in discomfort.

“My apologies,” said the curé, turning his smile up again toward Javert, “You need not answer such a nosey question.”

“No,” Javert choked, “It is a natural one.” He took a breath, “I am ashamed to admit it, but you see, monsieur le curé, I have faltered." He tried to silence himself, but his mouth would not cooperate. "I have failed in my responsibilities. This will be my last night as an officer. I am resigning.” Javert had not meant to say all _that_. He thought this is what it must have been like to be drunk. To spill yourself into the ears of another like a damned idiot. He felt guilty for being relieved the curé was blind and unable to see the redness beneath Javert’s brown face.

The curé hardly missed a beat, “Was this failure really so severe as to warrant your resignation?” His tone did not match the words. It was open and friendly.

“Yes,” Javert grit his teeth, but could not stop the words that followed, “I have disgraced my uniform and myself. The entirety of my career has been found worthless. I am lost, and there is no other just way but to remove myself.” He did not like how often his own voice was surprising him that night. What was _happening_ to him?

“My brother, there was but One who was never lost in life. No man is beyond finding his way again.”

Javert was silent.

“You speak of justice, but what of mercy?” the curé continued.

“I have not afforded mercy to anyone else. If I allowed it for myself, that would be the greatest injustice in the world.” Javert had, at least, spoken those words fully of his own conscious volition.

The curé cocked his head very slightly, “I cannot say I believe either statement is true, but it is not my place to judge you.

“However, I will say that I once knew a man who had fallen quite far before he was offered mercy. What a shame he had not been offered it earlier! It would have spared him and others much suffering. All the same, he found it within himself to become a great man after he managed to forgive of himself what others would not. He went on to bring much good to a society that had treated him with great cruelty.”

The wolf loosed his tiger laugh, “I knew such a man! And I was one who would not forgive. There lies the truth: after denying him mercy, I cannot grant it to myself.”

The curé nodded with a sage serenity. “Ah. There is but one thing to be done then, monsieur. It must be some one _else_ to grant this mercy to you.”

“I would not have it,” Javert said.

“Very well! Then it must come from the Source of all Justice, and then you could not deny it.”

Javert flared his nostrils in a repressed snort. “If Justice granted Mercy, then I would accept it. But Justice does not, and so I will not.” No, Justice never granted Mercy. Whatever thing beyond duty Javert had done that night, it _wasn't_ Justice.

Again, the curé turned his smile up to Javert, “We shall see.”

It did not take them long to reach the police station. Just outside the door, several gendarmes were talking amongst themselves. Javert made a face when not one of them greeted either himself or the curé. Javert couldn’t have been more insulted if he’s been spit on. He would make damn sure these men were dealt with later.

“Monsieur le curé has been separated from his guide—” Javert’s words trailed off in absolute astonishment and disgust. The gendarmes were _still talking_. “Your _attention_ , officers!”

The curé patted Javert’s arm in a way that would have been condescending were it done by someone of lesser age or station, “Monsieur, they do not perceive us.”

“They will momentarily,” his voice was at least as terrible as it was quiet.

“Oh, no. They cannot.”

For several heartbeats, Javert's mouth twitched without actually making a sound. “I—wh—for—” he stuttered. Javert did _not_ stutter.

“Has monsieur forgotten the river?”

The only reason that Javert realized his knees had given way beneath him was because of the impossible strength he felt the other man use to help Javert to the ground rather than let him fall. But why should he have lost his ground? Why should he feel so cold? Simultaneously so heavy and so hollow? Had he not decided to tender his resignation of his own free will? Was it not just that he be punished however God saw fit?

Why should he now be so horrified?

The curé had at some point knelt in front of Javert. The old man’s smile had not wavered. “The man I spoke of before, he once felt as you did now. I would not tell you such a private story except that I know that you already know of Petit Gervais, and I also know that Jean Valjean would tell you himself if he were here. There are things a man does in one moment that he finds agreeable only in that moment. The shock and the horror come later.”

“There is no reason I should feel such a way,” Javert said, his voice rasping. But that was not true, he realized, as the gravity of his final actions began to sink in.

“And yet, my brother, you do.” The curé patted Javert's arm again. "But never mind. You'll be alright."

“Who are you?”

“In life I was the Bishop of Digne,” the man said, “now, I am a light that seeks out others. And tonight, I have sought out you, Inspector Javert.”

The Bishop of Digne! The entirety of the universe had ceased to make any logical sense to Javert. “I don’t understand.”

The bishop beamed, “You do not have to!”

Javert wiped his face with his hands. When he opened his eyes again, he and the bishop were in a field of autumn-golden grass.

Javert's first impression was that it did not look like any description of Hell that Javert had ever heard. He was disgusted and ashamed of the _relief_ he felt at that, but there was no denying it.

The bishop pointed behind Javert, “What is it that you see there?”

Javert turned around, and a building stood about fifty yards away. It was a multi-storied building of gray stone. Though few people would have called it beautiful, there was a sense of elegance and dignity to it. “A stone building. I see no sign or insignia.”

“Ah,” the bishop nodded, “That must be the hospital.” He stood and offered Javert a hand. Javert took it and rose. “Most suicides go there for a time. I have visited souls there before. The work they do is good, and it is not an unhappy place.”

“This is my judgement then?” Javert asked, with some skepticism, “To be hospitalized?”

“I suspect so. For now. One does not stay there forever.”

“I am to have mercy then,” Javert’s voice was flat. _At the price of my humiliation_ , he did not say, but he had seen the inside of such institutions before. More than one victim of terrible crimes ended up in such a place, and their state had still inspired in him horror and pity after he had become largely numb to even the scene of a murder. That, Javert imagined, could be a Hell. But it wasn't eternal, and therefore, it was Mercy.

The bishop spread his hands. “This is the Judgement of God. He who is the Source of all Mercy and all Justice. If you wish to defy it—"

Javert shuddered.

"—I have not heard of any gates or fences here. Nothing is stopping you from walking away. You would not be the first soul to choose to wander, and there will still always be the opportunity to change your mind.” Leaning on his cane, the bishop continued, “However, would you be so gracious as to lead _me_ to the hospital? My guide waits there.”

While he had been aware that the Bishop of Digne had lost his sight in his twilit years, it was surprising to Javert to learn that his lordship had not regained it in Heaven. But the inspector hardly thought it was his business to inquire after. Rather, he offered his arm again. How could he do anything else? “Of course, monsignor.”

With the bishop at his arm, Javert did not waver or tarry. He held himself straight, and though he allowed himself his typical habit of withdrawing most of himself into his uniform, the absence of his hat somewhat diminished the effect.

Within the entryway, two women stood. One a near ethereal being who bore enough likeness to the bishop to clearly be a relative. The other a stout and earthy woman that reminded Javert for all the world of the trunk of a hardy fruit tree. Javert could not have said why the comparison occurred to him, but he could not deny the aptness now that the thought had come.

“Monsignor,” the second woman said in a tone that was very nearly scolding, “Leaving without your sight, alone! Monsignor!” she said again, “Why did you not ask myself or mademoiselle to accompany you?”

“But I had no need,” said the bishop, patting Javert’s arm, “This good man escorted me to both the police station and the hospital.” Turning to Javert, the bishop said, “Inspector, this is my friend, Magloire, and I would be astonished if my sister, Baptistine, was not with her. Ladies, this is Inspector Javert.”

Reaching to remove his hat, not finding it, and feeling a bit foolish, Javert dipped his head in the women’s direction. They responded in like, minus the fumbling for absent articles of clothing.

“Monsieur,” Magloire said with absentminded acknowledgement, taking the bishop’s other arm. Javert released the one he held. The woman muttered something about _the death of me_ , but Javert stopped listening as soon as he realized the words were not directed at him.

He bowed low in his guide’s direction, “Thank you, Monsignor le Bishop. I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense,” the bishop said, making the sign of the cross over Javert, “God’s blessing upon you and your healing, my brother.”

Javert turned, put his hand to the door, and entered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Javert's psychological shift toward the end when reflecting on his suicide, I did this for two reasons. One, it better mirrored Valjean's Petit Gervais incident. Two, sometimes when a person's suicide attempt has been interrupted there is a moment of "what did I almost just do?" It doesn't mean their battle with suicidal ideation is over, but there is occasionally a moment of (for lack of a better word) clarity that lasts at least a few minutes. 
> 
> I'm really not entirely sure what Javert would have expected to happen after jumping. The book says he believed in God, but says most of Javert's religion was in his job. It implies that Javert didn't go to church/pray/think about God much after becoming an adult/officer. I can't imagine Javert not believing in Hell. Catholic doctrine says suicide is a damnable offense if done while the person is sane, so... But, when you're suicidal, you're not necessarily thinking about that. I can only imagine what it's like if you haven't eaten or slept in over 24 hours to boot.


	2. Chapter 2

Withdrawing from the company of the bishop and the women, Javert entered the hospital proper. The building was full of light and air, significantly brighter than the exterior would have indicated. He did not immediately see anyone, but a voice called out that froze him like a winter wind.

“Monsieur le Inspector!”

Turning, he saw a young woman with golden hair and lively eyes. Even with all her teeth and a healthy glow, Javert knew her.

Her smile faded as Javert felt himself tremble. Her eyebrows came together in an expression of concern— _concern_! “Monsieur?”

He knew that this torment was just. Why _shouldn’t_ he be made to face every unrightable wrong he had perpetrated in life? Javert knelt. When Fantine made to lower herself to meet him, he held up a halting hand. “No.”

“Shall I call a doctor?”

Javert shook his head. “Mademoiselle Fantine. I do not ask your forgiveness—I do not dare! But I beg you hear me.” He had no right to ask for that, not when he had refused to hear her in life. Not when she had told him nothing but the truth that he discarded immediately as the excuses of a drunken, violent whore. “I have greatly wronged you. You know this, but I wish you to know that _I_ now know this and repent of my unjust actions. It comes far too late. It means nothing, I know. Valjea—Monsieur le Meire spoke true after your passing: your death blow came at my hand.”

She was still as stone when he reached out and kissed the hem of her skirts. He had no claim to her forgiveness, but she had to know he was sincere, that he was justly ashamed. If she knew that, it would be enough.

Her voice was soft. “Oh, Monsieur le Inspector. I beg you, stand. You exaggerate.”

He looked up at her, agog. Beg? Exaggerate? And she used _vous_? After all he had done to her and the man who had raised her daughter? Javert did not rise; this was not in defiance, but in simple astonishment.

“I was already dying. You took perhaps a few hours, and not intentionally. You did not know how your words would shock me.” Fantine reached a hand out to him that he was still too astounded to take. “Inspector Javert, there is little enough to forgive you for, and I did so long ago.”

“It is only Javert. You ought not use _vous_ , mademoiselle. I treated you cruelly, and I did not even see it. As to shock, I revealed your savior to be a criminal! I was not so stupid as to assume that would not be shocking.” He wished she would strike him, spit on him, do _something_ to make the scales of their interaction less unfair, however slight.

“Yes, but it was a mistake then. Do you mean to say you knew it would end me? I don’t believe it. And you apologize now that you know,” she smiled, “It is only Fantine.”

“I have sought justice,” Javert said, nearly in a trance, “and have found only misbegotten mercy.”

Fantine knelt. Javert attempted to dissuade her, but she did not listen. “Is that how you came to be here? Seeking justice?”

His silence was apparently answer enough.

“You may not find precisely what you want here, Javert,” Fantine said, coaxing him to his feet, “But I promise you that you’ll find what you need.”

Finding his voice, he asked, “How is it that you’ve come to be here?” Were his final words to her alive that terrible? Had Javert condemned her to _another_ hospital after death?

Fantine’s smile broadened. “I help here to pass the time. I don’t have to wait, of course. I could choose not to perceive time, but that seems a waste, doesn’t it? And there are children here! Many whose parents are either ahead or behind.” Her smile became like a beam of spring sunlight, “Working with them is a joy! There are many who remind me of my Cossette, when she was about their age.” She laughed, “And then there are many who don’t.”

“Ah, Fantine, I see you’ve met our newest patient.”

She and Javert turned to the person who had just entered the room. They (for neither their voice nor form marked a gender) were short and lean, with tight black braids and skin the color of polished dark cherry wood. Their uniform was gray: a buttoned jacket over a shirt and a pleated skirt beneath a long coat. They wore boots, but no hat or gloves. They approached with a leisurely speed.

It spoke to Javert’s mettle that he did not cower, for there had never been a time when the reptilian brain buried beneath his reason had screamed louder to run and hide.

Fantine showed no signs of distress. “I have. This is not the first time; would you believe it?”

“I would,” the person said, and extended a hand to Javert with a polite smile. “Do not fear, monsieur. I am Talatiel, one of the doctors here.”

To place his hand in Talatiel’s seemed to Javert the same as to place it in the talons of an eagle, bare his neck to the teeth of a lion, or open his torso to the horns of a bull. He did so anyway. Talatiel’s grasp was firm but not unfriendly.

“Javert was the only name given to address you by. Is this the name you would have us use then?” Despite Talatiel’s easy voice and small frame, there was still the suggestion of a power that could crush nations with all the effort of waving away a gnat. There was an enormity to them that Javert could not place. The statement _do not fear_ did not seem at all presumptuous, but rather a necessary thing to get out of the way.

“Yes, ah, your pardon,” Javert began, “I am uncertain how to address you.”

Talatiel’s dark eyes narrowed with something that might have been mischief, “Doctor Talatiel will do.” They allowed for a brief pause and laughed. “I have no preference with regards to the masculine or feminine. Most individuals from your culture and time period favor the masculine form of address, I find, but you are welcome to use whichever you please.”

They used a hand to gesture to the corridor at the end of the room behind them, “I assure you that this will not be the last you see of Fantine, but a patient’s first day has a certain structure to it that we like to follow. First, allow me to show you the living quarters.”

A cold puddle of dread settled in Javert’s stomach. He ducked his head in acquiescence, “Yes, doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous literary parallels! Javert's mental state is going to remain shaky for at least a couple more chapters (yours would be, too, if you'd just died and your mistakes came sailing at you like a thrown rock).
> 
> If the imagery describing Talatiel seems excessive, I'll just say it was chosen deliberately and leave it at that.


	3. Chapter 3

After a brief goodbye to Fantine, Talatiel led Javert onward. The living area was apparently very close by, as they only passed an entrance to (and several large windows facing) a large garden with a splendid tree in its center that Javert couldn’t identify. He saw many people milling about or resting. Some in uniforms like Talatiel’s; some in simpler ones of loose fitting trousers and tunics, and sashes of various colors; some in common clothing; some in exotic or wholly unfamiliar garb, or bizarre costumes.

“Patients, staff, volunteers, and visitors,” Talatiel said, “You’ll meet some of them in the next several days.”

Talatiel led on to two broad wooden doors that Talatiel said opened into a library. “Later, you will be given free access. For now, however,” Talatiel said, smiling in a way that Javert would almost call coy, “I feel we should leave its current occupants to themselves.”

They stopped at two sets of stairs that wound in opposite directions on the right and left sides. “These both lead to a common room on the next floor,” Talatiel said, stepping up the stairs to the right. They stopped at the landing to allow Javert a chance to see the common room. It had a high ceiling and tall windows that let light onto the sofas and tables. A fireplace was at the center. It was occupied by perhaps a dozen or so people. Almost all of them in uniform. Those who saw Javert smiled or nodded, and promptly turned away.

Talatiel started again, “They aren’t being unfriendly. It’s customary to avoid interacting with a new patient unless strictly necessary during their first day, to allow them time to settle in.

“This is where the stairs’ paths diverge, so remember to take the stairway on the right. It is not uncommon for patients to get lost in their first several days. If you do find yourself turned around, you will find another patient or hospital worker to show you the way beyond the next door or corner you come to.”

The stairs ended at a long and largely ordinary looking hallway. There were five numbered doors on each side. Talatiel led Javert to the door labeled _4_ on the left.

“This is yours. All that you need has already been stocked for you. If you have a special request, please let me know. I may be able to grant it.” Talatiel took a step back, and met Javert’s gaze. A warm, soft smile appeared to be the doctor’s resting expression, “I am one of the staff primarily assigned to this wing. I won’t be hard to find. However…”

Talatiel gestured toward the door, “I will leave you now to settle into your rooms, Monsieur Javert. Supper will be brought to you later this evening. Tomorrow, you will be introduced to the other patients and staff.”

A silver key caught the light between Talatiel’s thumb and forefinger and was held out to Javert. He thanked Talatiel and accepted the key.

It slid cleanly into the hole above the door handle and the deadbolt retracted with a click. The well-oiled hinges made the barest of creaks when Javert pushed on the door. It opened on a set of wooden stairs that led up to a kitchen and dining area of red brick and white plaster. The kitchen was small and tidy, with a chamberstick on its sleek wooden countertops and—bizarrely—a depressed bowl and what looked like the head of a water pump with a knob on it. Javert ceased all further inspection of his new quarters and stared at it.

It looked like a functioning thing, and he could hardly imagine the point of whatever this was as a _decoration_. Still, he hesitated a moment before turning the knob counterclockwise. Water started gushing out and Javert hastily turned the knob back.

“What an extravagance,” he said to himself, frowning slightly, and backed away.

The dining area jutted out a bit, and three large windows looked out over the garden Javert had seen earlier. He didn’t linger to take in the view; if _he_ could see _them_ , there was no reason _they_ shouldn’t be able to see _him_. Perhaps he would ask where he might go about getting some curtains. Javert then recalled that his current plane of existence was unlikely to have a market. He would have to ask Talatiel for curtains. The thought of imposing on them was disagreeable enough that Javert decided he would just avoid the dining area as best he could.

Across from the kitchen, there was a small space with a short table with two books (a thin hardback and an even thinner book that was nearly a pamphlet) on it and a couch that Javert took to be the sitting room. This space also had a window, but it was one Javert could move the couch to avoid being seen from, if he felt like it. There was also a small door and a staircase. Javert opened the door and found a tub. There was another of the pump-head things on it, which Javert thought rather ridiculous seeing as it would be both dangerous and wildly impractical to heat the entire tub. He checked to see if there was some small fireplace beneath it to signify that that _was_ what he was expected to do. Nothing. Perhaps _this_ one was decorative.

There were windows high enough to let in light without anyone actually being able to see in or out. There was another small door, which led to a fairly cramped room with a mirror, another depressed bowl and pump-head, and… Javert wasn’t entirely sure what to call it. He pressed the lever on its side. It sucked down what water was in it with such an abrupt and deafening sound that Javert retreated from the small room entirely and shut the door. Whatever it was, he would deal with it later. He reminded himself that it couldn’t _possibly_ be dangerous, so long it was used for its intended purpose. Until he knew what that was, he should simply avoid fiddling with it.

He exited the bathing area and turned toward the staircase. As Javert ascended, it became dimmer, until he stepped into a room as dark as night. Moonlight shone in from what looked to be double doors, only there were panes of glass in them. The room contained a large bed, a wardrobe, and a door on the far wall.

Surely, Javert thought, it was not _actually_ night. He looked down the staircase. It was bright towards its base. He turned back around. Well, this was the bedroom. Perhaps the bedroom was always dark? But then, how was one to wake in the morning if not to the sun?

One of the doors swung open, and in stepped a…person. The person was blinding. White heat seared Javert’s eyes in a roughly human shape with paler impressions of something by the feet and head and spine. Javert brought his hands to his eyes. The contrast of light and dark being entirely too jarring for him.

“Oh!” the voice was high, and there was a rasp that was really more of a hiss to it, “I didn’t realize I had stayed so long! Monsieur, you may open your eyes. I assure you I am presentable now.” That they used _tu_ was something Javert only barely registered.

Javert lowered his hands. After the spots in his eyes had faded, he could see someone tall (even taller than himself, by several inches) and reedy in the doorway. This person was pale to the point of colorlessness except for the suggestion of a blue tint to their body, and their hair was wild and wispy. If their eyes had not so clearly been focused on Javert, he would have thought them blind. The pupils were milky blue-gray. They wore the same uniform as Talatiel, only in cream. However, very unlike Talatiel, about whom Javert had his suspicions, this individual was either not making much of an effort or simply not attempting to pass for human.

“My name is Fotael. I’m one the architects of the hospital. I suppose that this living space is yours now?”

“I am Javert, and yes…” Javert bowed his head briefly, “Forgive me. How do I address you?” Javert was not about to use _tu_ with this Fotael. Not using _vous_ seemed downright dangerous.

“Fotael,” there was not a hint of irony in their voice. “Come, Javert, I wish to get your opinion.” Fotael smiled after they spoke, as if facial expressions were something they had forgotten to use up to that point.

Javert followed them back out the door and onto a deck. The hospital garden was not beneath them. The scene before them was a thin valley between two mountains and a sky that was strange to Javert. He was no astronomer, but he could not find any of the handful of constellations or stars he knew. The very _moon_ looked wrong somehow, and it took Javert a moment to realize why.

“You seem distressed,” Fotael said, looking at Javert and then back to the view. “Is it the land or the sky that troubles you?”

“I beg your pardon,” Javert said, “I was merely surprised. I do not recognize the stars, and the moon…” _Is upside down_ , he thought but did not say.

Fotael cocked their head. It reminded Javert of the jerky motion of songbirds, “I’ll admit I took some artistic liberties, but I based it off Earth’s vantage point. Ah.” Fotael lifted a hand and pointed to the moon. “You lived in the _northern_ hemisphere, didn’t you?” With a twist of their wrist, the moon flipped and the sky turned.

Javert didn’t realize he had begun to teeter until Fotael caught his shoulder. The heat of their hand could be felt even through Javert’s greatcoat.

“It isn’t real,” Fotael explained, releasing him. “I had been told you were a private man, and I thought you might like your balcony to lead to a space other than the one outside the hospital, but that would still feel out of doors.

“The temperature and wind can be altered according to your preference. I will synchronize it with the hospital’s time. Now, if you like.” Fotael paused, “Perhaps that would be inconsiderate of your retinas.”

What were retinas? “It might hurt my eyes,” Javert said, “but only for a moment. That concern is not worth any inconvenience to you or your schedule, Fotael.”

Their laughter seemed mechanical. Like they were using the sound to convey meaning and emotion without feeling the actual impulse. “ _I_ am the one who has interrupted _your_ schedule, Monsieur Javert.”

Without the slightest appearance of exertion, Fotael perched on the wooden railing of the balcony. They stood. “There is about ten feet of space above the railing, three feet out from it, and three feet from the floor of the balcony.” Fotael leaped up and outward, landing on what looked to be air without a sound. “Plenty of space, but perfectly safe. And easy to retrieve anything you might drop.”

Javert leaned over the railing and offered his hand to help them up. The gesture caused Fotael to stop. “Oh,” they said, as if surprised. They walked over and accepted the hand, “Thank you.”

Fotael’s hand was almost uncomfortably hot against Javert’s bare skin, and they weighed next to nothing. One they were back on the deck, they went back inside, possibly taking for granted that Javert would follow. He did, and shut the door behind him.

“Before I leave you in peace,” Fotael said at the top of the stairs, “do you have any questions about your rooms?”

“Yes, actually,” said Javert, “There is…a contraption in a room next to the tub downstairs. I am unsure what it is for?”

Fotael cocked their head, “Do you mean the toilet?”

So that was where Javert was meant to do his grooming? “I mean the thing that looks like a large bowl filled partly with water, and it rapidly drains when a lever is pressed.”

“Yes. It functions as a considerably more sanitary chamber pot,” Fotael pointed to the door of the bedroom that Javert had not yet opened, “You have another there.” After a moment, they continued, “I took the lack of electric lighting into account—which you may have installed at any time, should you find it suits you—but I tend to take indoor plumbing for granted. I could remove it, if you really want, but I would strongly advise you keep it.”

The silence afterward made it apparent that Javert was meant to respond, “I will, thank you for the advice.” The words felt awkward in, and out, of his mouth. Fotael's expressionless staring was not helping to alleviate any such feeling.

Again, Fotael cocked their head in that abrupt, avian motion, “Did you see the books on the table in the sitting room? The larger one should explain a few things. Perhaps I should have placed them in a more obvious location… Would the counter have been better?”

“I noticed the books,” Javert admitted, feeling slightly embarrassed by his irresponsibility, “Not reading it was my own fault.”

“No,” Fotael said, “I have found that most humans explore their dwelling before reading the manual. If they ever read it at all.”

Ah! There it was. An admission to their inhumanity. The triumph was fleeting, however, as this presented a new question that Javert couldn’t very well just _ask_.

“Do you have any other questions about your rooms?”

“I do not believe so.”

A brightness filled the room behind him and he whipped around to find that the light of day spilling in through the double doors’ windows. He blinked, and turned back to the staircase.

But Fotael was gone.

Javert descended the stairs and entered the sitting room. He adjusted the couch so that he couldn’t be seen from the outside. Then he picked up the hardback book from the table. Grimacing, Javert sat down and opened up to the first page. It seemed that even in death, reading was a chore he would be forced to submit to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that didn't exist in the early 1800s: faucets, toilets, the concept of retinas. The closest thing to a sink Javert would have been likely to see would be a [dry sink](https://www.sawdustcityllc.com/what-is-a-dry-sink/). The word _toilet_ would have meant the process of grooming and dressing and such.
> 
> Our dear inspector has suspicions about the staff that some of you might also be having. If you think he's being a bit slow, put yourself in his shoes for a moment. Would _you_ ask? (I probably wouldn't.)


	4. Chapter 4

The books, it turned out, not only gave Javert an (over)abundance of information on the use and maintenance of his new quarters in the form of the hardback, but the booklet contained the rules of the hospital.

The book of rules he devoured, committing every detail to memory. The formal rules were actually very few and simple. Most amounted to not attempting to harm others or their property, not deliberately damaging communal property, not stealing, not inciting violence, and the like. The first set of rules literally ended with the phrase “in short, do not be spiteful.”

The second set of rules were more specific. Each patient was given three identical uniforms (Javert disapproved; anybody could make do with one, and two even allowed for one to be worn while the other was washed). When the patient was outside their dorms, excluding leave and special events, they were to wear their uniform in its entirety. Any patient caught doing otherwise without sufficient cause would be made to change and certain privileges might be suspended. This, Javert first felt, was excessively lenient. However, he reconsidered his current placement. This was a place for the infirm of mind and spirit.

 _Like myself,_ he thought, with not a little shame. The staff expected then, and made allowances for, their charges to fail in even the simplest things.

No. Not Javert. He would take on his role as a patient as he had his role as an officer. He would complete every task to perfection and be a model patient at which the doctors could look and think, “This one, at least, I need not worry myself about” and get on with their day.

His very presence was an inconvenience, and that could not be undone. But Javert could—Javert _would_ —make himself as little an inconvenience as possible.

Patients were also expected to retire to their dorms by midnight. They were be expected to attend their sessions and meetings and to be punctual in doing so. All work and projects given were to be completed by the assigned date and time unless an extension was given. Failure to do so may result in suspension of privileges. A small burst of excitement rattled against Javert’s wooden heart. Work! Assignments! His stay here would not be an idle convalescence; he would be _industrious_ , perhaps even useful.

Patients were expected to keep themselves in good health and order. It was recognized that diet and grooming standards varied by culture and individual, however, a certain quality was expected. Patients were provided with nourishment and means of maintaining personal hygiene. Likewise, self-injury (with specific cultural exceptions) would not be tolerated. If a patient would not or could not keep themselves in good order, the staff reserved the right to assist them in doing so.

Javert thought of the hospitalized victims he’d seen in the course of his life. Listless or frantic, disheveled and not uncommonly reeking. At least the staff _here_ wouldn’t stand for that.

The next passage made Javert raise an eyebrow. Patients may be provided with recreational substances. Use of such substances is a privilege, not a right, of patients. Abuse of said substances may result in suspension of the substances’ effects. Perhaps that did away with the need to keep patients from trading or smuggling illicit items.

Tobacco was included in the nonexclusive list of substances. Javert felt for his snuff box. It was still there and, on inspection, still contained snuff. He considered the hospital uniforms. Javert didn’t know if they even had pockets, much less one he could slip his snuff box into. Further, they were white and any spilled powder would draw eyes like a beacon. This presented a problem, but one that could be set aside for the moment. It was hard for Javert to imagine what he could possibly do that would warrant a pinch of snuff as a reward, anyhow.

Patients were not to leave the hospital grounds unattended without explicit permission for any period of time. No further qualifiers were given, nor any consequences.

That appeared to be the whole of the law at the hospital. It was all very simple, but Javert had no doubt at all that some people would still find a way to break it.

 

Javert went about preparing his dwelling space for actual habitation. Relying on the book to explain a few things, he opened the various storage spaces and stocked his rooms with what he needed. He was particularly gratified to find a shaving kit; that he could not do without, and would have had to impose himself on Talatiel to request it.

In his wardrobe, he found the three hospital uniforms, two nightshirts, an abundance of underclothes and stockings, a set of day clothes for both hot and cold weather, a series of ribbons, two pairs of shoes, and his hat that he had left on the parapet. It drew a curious stir of emotions in him. Javert was grateful, of course, for the gesture and consideration. But…

No, this was just. Javert would hang his uniform here in the wardrobe. Everyday, he would be forced to look at it and remember the post he had failed. His _disgrace_. Facing it would remind him to be a better man.

A knock at the door broke his concentration. “Just a moment,” he called, descended to the first floor, and went down the stairs leading to the door.

When he opened it, there was nothing and no one there. Javert looked up and down the hall just to be sure, but it was empty. He shut the door and started back up the stairs. Had he imagined it? Surely, no one in the hospital would play childish pranks?

It was moving at this more relaxed pace through his kitchen when he noticed the smell. Javert turned and found a place and meal set at the dining table. He took notice of the light in the windows and found it did look like the early evening. This was sooner than Javert would have eaten when he was alive, but the smell reminded his body (or whatever manner of vessel he was currently inhabiting) that it had been a good while since he had eaten.

However, Javert was conscious of two unsettling facts. The first of which being that someone had come into his space either totally unannounced or had slipped past him while he was standing in the doorway. In fact, they might still be there.

“Is anyone here?” Javert asked, unconsciously reaching for his cudgel and surprisingly, _finding_ it. There was no response. He forced himself to take a seat on the couch.

He was not in danger. Indeed, he was already dead. He was in a hospital for the dead. He felt his wrists and neck; no abrasions. He looked himself over, he was clean and as far as he could tell he didn’t smell of sewage. Javert chided himself; he really should have taken stock of these things earlier. There was no excuse for being this unobservant! This hard man would not allow himself the use of the events of the past three days to offer leniency in the judgement of his foolishness.

Amazing things happened here. If a member of the staff came into a home he was freely being lent by the hospital anyway, that was well within their rights. And if it was simply to leave a plate of food, that was hardly the worst thing they could do.

That line of thinking settled, Javert moved on to the second unsettling fact: the place set for him was within the sight of the window.

True, he could remove the plate and eat in the sitting area or over the counter, but even in the privacy (and how much of that did he have, _really_?) of his own space that seemed embarrassingly absurd.

Would he be judged if he was seen still in his police uniform? Patients were not required to wear hospital uniforms in their dorms, but surely, they would have been expected to wear the provided day clothes? But was there really any sense in changing into a clean set of clothing for perhaps another three hours? He wasn’t about to be seen in his nightshirt, either.

Javert’s head hurt.

Ultimately, he decided on eating at the table in his current dress and not looking away from the plate for any reason. There were other, more interesting things to be seen from the garden than a man eating his supper. Javert would be as uninteresting a sight as possible.

The meal was good; far better than anything Javert was used to on his inspector’s wages. But it might have been sawdust for all that he wanted only to have it done so that he could get away from the window.

He cleaned the dishes, performed his evening lavations, dressed for bed, and spent the rest of the evening on the balcony. There where no one could see him, and Javert was alone but for the make-believe sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the zero (0) people who want to know, I imagine Javert's dinner was a cut of beef tenderloin with roast potatoes and green peas. Which is to say it was fucking delectable but he couldn't enjoy it because he was _too busy feeling self conscious_.
> 
> The next chapter will have more action in it, but this one is important. Promise.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but at least things are happening!

When Javert awoke, it was to a horrifyingly bright bedroom. He flipped over to the side facing the double doors and their windows. The sun was well in the sky.

Javert moved so quickly he nearly tumbled out of bed, but managed to free his legs from the bedsheets in time. He rushed to the wardrobe and dressed himself, and then preformed the most basic morning grooming. His rooms were left in a mild disarray that Javert would not have _dreamed_ of under normal circumstances.

He made it all the way to his dorm’s common room before remembering that he had no idea where he was meant to go.

One of the other patients in the common room must have noticed Javert’s stupefied expression.

“You want to go to the dining hall,” the man said, “Go back to the entrance, straight through to the left halls, take a left at the end of that hallway, and keep going. You can’t miss it.”

Javert managed a polite nod and a muttered thanks before following the directions.

           

The man was right. One really _couldn’t_ miss the dining hall. It was an enormous white room with a bar along the kitchen area and perhaps two hundred wicker seats by wooden tables. One wall was made up mostly of tall and wide windows. Javert was noticing a pattern. It was not the garden on the other side of those windows, but a part of the same field Javert had first seen upon his arrival. In the distance, there was the long line of a forest.

Javert walked up to the kitchen bar and requested a coffee and a cut of black bread. He was shortly handed a tray with the bread and coffee and an apple he hadn’t asked for by a person in the same cream colored uniform Fotael wore. He took this to a seat by one of the many windows, because all the seats in the darker corners were taken.

There were patients going around the tables, collecting empty trays and bringing full ones to others who apparently couldn’t get them themselves.

A clatter and crash of dropped tableware exploded to Javert’s left. He whipped around to see a man with brown skin and shortly cropped, gray and black hair and beard scooping the broken bits into a pile. He had a red sash. Another patient came over to help, and the man directed a furtive look to Javert before turning away again.

Something about him roused a sense of the uncanny in Javert, and so he looked back to the windows.

 

After finishing his breakfast, Javert made to return to the common room and see if he couldn’t find out where he was expected to be next. He came again out into the entrance area and saw that the desk was now occupied.

It was Fantine.

Javert had no hat to tip, so settled for a polite bow of his head when their eyes met.

She smiled, “Good morn—” Fantine’s eyes widened a moment; she recovered quickly, “—ing, Javert.”

But not before Javert could take in her brief expression of shock.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She laughed, but the sound of it didn’t seem quite right to Javert’s ears. “Oh no, not at all! I just don’t think I’ve seen you in anything but your professional dress. The hospital uniforms are quite different, aren’t they?”

The perpetual crease between Javert’s eyebrows deepened. “Yes, they are.”

“Are you coming back from breakfast?” when Javert nodded, Fantine said, “In that case, your doctor—I suspect that will be Talatiel—will meet you in either the dorm commons or your own rooms.” Her smile became relaxed again, “It’s not terribly late yet, so you have time to explore the garden if you like. It’s a lovely place! It does wonderful work for the patients’ minds and spirits.”

Something was _definitely_ wrong. Javert surreptitiously looked over his clothing. Nothing spilled there, and really, that wouldn’t explain the _shock_.

“Perhaps another time,” Javert said, making a close-lipped smile that he had been told was among the _least_ terrifying of his expressions. “I would rather not keep Doctor Talatiel waiting.”

 

Talatiel was indeed in the common room. When Javert entered, they turned to Javert with their apparently typical warm smile, “Good morning, Monsieur Javert. Did you sleep well?”

Javert was uncertain whether or not that was a covert chastisement. He swallowed, “Yes, Doctor. I assure you I do not typically sleep so late.” It felt dangerously close to an excuse, however true it was. But it couldn’t be taken back, now.

“Most patients sleep late their first night. Some their first several nights,” Talatiel raised their eyebrows very slightly, “Death appears to be rather exhausting.”

It made Javert feel a little better that his uncharacteristic sloth was not uncommon, but only a little. Javert, after all, did not become who he was by being common. The former inspector’s habit of holding himself to inhuman standards was so ingrained that he did not notice the instinct, much less consider what it had ultimately led to in life. After all, if he did not have such expectations, how else would he know when to feed the fires of self-loathing?

“There is a door at the other end of the common room that leads to the doctors’ offices. If you will follow me, I would like to discuss the current plans for your treatment.”

Javert’s trepidation was a living thing that clawed and twisted its way through his chest and stomach, seeking some impossible way out. Nonetheless, he followed Talatiel to a door behind the fireplace. On its surface, the door had a golden circle.

Talatiel tapped the circle with two fingers. “This symbol,” they said, “indicates a door that will open into a doctor’s office. Any door on the campus marked in this fashion will function the same way. If there is ever an emergency, find one and open it. Even if one doctor’s office is currently locked, there will always be at least one that is open to anyone in need.”

When Talatiel looked at Javert again, they were not smiling, “All doctors are trained to manage crisis. Even if you do not know them, you can trust them to keep you—or anyone else—safe until I or another staff member who works with you arrives. When in doubt, use the door. It is far better to overreact than to underreact in such cases.”

“Understood,” Javert said with a grim nod.

The door opened into a single, windowed room where there should have been the inside of a chimney and the floor of the common room. Javert hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. The architecture of the hospital was clearly beyond his ken, and Javert wasn’t even going to try to understand it.

Talatiel walked behind their desk. “Please take a seat,” they said before taking their own.

Javert did as instructed. He kept his hands quietly on his thighs, knees together, chin at a forty-five-degree angle from his throat, and his spine like a pole.

“Monsieur Javert, there is no need to be so anxious.”

Javert swallowed, “With respect, Doctor, I know something of the treatments for—” _madmen_ —"those of unsound minds. I promise you my full cooperation, but they are not something I look forward to.”

Talatiel’s smile fell, their eyes widened. Then their lips tightened and brow knit slightly. “I sincerely apologize,” Talatiel said, “I ought to have disabused you of such notions yesterday. We use no such methods here.

“Though such illness is often accompanied by an unwell mental state, which will of course be addressed and managed, treatment here is for those ill in spirit. We have classes, group discussion, exercise, and the like.” Talatiel waved a hand, a tight expression on their face directed at nothing in particular, “We have no use for tubs of ice water or straightjackets.”

The breath Javert released came out in a shudder.

“Now,” Talatiel pulled a…something out of a drawer. It was thin, rectangular, and glowed a soft, faintly purple light. They faced Javert, and while their facial muscles had relaxed, their expression was still solemn. “As I have said, there is no need for anxiety…”

Naturally, Javert's anxiety only increased.

“But you have a choice to make as to your next step in your recovery.” Talatiel tapped the thing. “If I read this file, I will know the events of your life through your perspective. To a much lesser degree, this has already occurred. When patients encounter someone they knew in life, their doctor will see brief moments of particular importance that occurred between them.”

_‘Ah, Fantine, I see you’ve met our newest patient.’_

_‘I have. This is not the first time; would you believe it?’_

_‘I would.’_

Javert blanched. Shame twisted in his gut like a thumbscrew.

“This is not meant as an invasion of privacy, but a safeguard so that the doctor knows if patients need to be separated, how, and why.”

There might yet be a way to salvage this, or ruin it further. “Do you see events from their lives alone? Or later interaction as well?” Javert was unsure which answer he would prefer.

“Only their lives,” Talatiel tilted their head, “Are you thinking of Fantine?”

A nod was the most the former inspector could manage.

Talatiel folded their hands, and their soft smile briefly returned. It was compassionate, but untainted by pity, “Forgiveness—of oneself and of others—is a vital part of the healing process. But that lesson comes later.”

Before Javert could respond to that, they tapped the thing again, “Now, I am asking if you will permit me to read your file.” Talatiel’s expression was open and earnest, “You can refuse. It would make your treatment more difficult, and riskier in some cases, I will be honest, but it can be done. And it _will_ be done, if that is what you choose.”

“Will you see the entirety of my life?” Javert asked, “Or only that deemed important?”

“Excellent question. I would see _almost_ the entirety. We’ve found patients are more comfortable with the idea when we omit unimportant scenes of things such as hygiene or certain forms of intimacy.”

Even though Talatiel was a doctor and… Well, even though they were a doctor, Javert was mildly scandalized.

“Further, I would not know your thoughts and I would feel only the somatic aspects of your emotions.”

Talatiel’s politeness and lack of contempt for him had been nice while it lasted. Still, Javert wished he’d never had it. Then he would have never known anything but Talatiel’s just hatred and disgust. It would have been easier.

But Javert did not _deserve_ ease. He clenched his jaw, “Read it.” He hastily added, “Doctor.”

“Thank you for your confidence, Monsieur Javert,” said Talatiel, and looked down at the glowing thing for several minutes without any expression betraying their thoughts. At last they looked up, and Javert forced himself to face them. He even looked them in the eye for a moment, but could not maintain it.

“I see I was on the right track,” Talatiel’s eyes brightened and they smiled broadly. They stood up and began pacing. They tapped the side of their jaw, “I’ll have to make some adjustments—thank you again; that information was very helpful—but overall…”

If Talatiel said anything else, Javert did not hear it.

What had just happened? Had they read the wrong file?

“Doctor—” Javert did not know how to finish that thought.

Talatiel stopped and turned to him, eyebrows up. After a moment, their smile tugged a little harder at the edges and their eyelids lowered slightly. “You were expecting a different reaction.

“Monsieur Javert,” Talatiel stepped behind their desk and placed their hands on it, leaning forward slightly, “you are far from my first patient. I have worked with all manner of souls. Every virtue, every vice, I have seen it. Those that were murdered, violated, tortured…and the murderers, rapists, and war criminals that committed those acts. I have known and treated them all. It is not a doctor’s place to judge, only to heal.”

Javert could only stare.

Talatiel stood and walked over to the door of their office. “I will make a schedule and give it to you after supper. You’ll be called to the common room then. In the meantime, you are free to do as you please. Have a cup of coffee outside the dining hall, walk the garden, visit the library if it should strike your fancy.” They opened the door for Javert, “Enjoy the rest of your day, Monsieur Javert. I will see you at supper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeeze, Javert, take a breath.
> 
> Understanding of mental illness at that time was...not so great. Some nastier treatments included: induced vomiting, sensory deprivation, ice baths, enemas, and strapping one down and spinning them around at high speed (no, [really](https://www.medscape.com/features/slideshow/odd-psychiatric-treatments#page=7)).


	6. UPDATE

This is an update, not an actual chapter. Sorry. I'll delete it once the actual chapter 6 is ready.

So. This has been on hiatus because life punched me in the throat last November and hasn’t exactly slowed down since.  
I also just got accepted into grad school. And I’ll still be working between 38.5 and 44.5 hours a week for the foreseeable future. And I’m almost halfway through editing my novel I want to publish for money.  
I suppose what I’m saying is please be patient with me? I haven't abandoned this (and I certainly haven't forgotten about it).

Further, I'm going to go and edit the first chapter. I've just changed my mind about a few things/become slightly better at writing what I'm actually thinking. Nothing major. Chances are you won't even notice.


End file.
